Lois Bujold - Memory

"No."

"There's two missing. He might have taken one himself at the same time, right along with you." Whoever he was.

"No." Illyan sounded more certain than usual. "I haven't taken any medication in the past thirty years except what my personal physician gives me with his own hands."

Miles recalled Haroche's more-than-one-man theory. "It might even have been your own physician. It's the small brown capsule I'm trying to track."

Illyan shook his head.

Miles levered himself up, and made polite farewells, and staggered off to bed.

He woke in the mid-afternoon, and spent a futile half-hour trying to return to sleep, while his mind worried his new problems. He gave up, rose, and checked in with Haroche by comconsole; the systems analysis team had not yet offered their report. A call to Weddell in the ImpSec clinic labs elicited mostly snarls at the interruption, but also a promise of more information soon. Soon, but not yet.

His restless prowling around his room was interrupted in turn by a call from a very bleary Ivan, who reported the original biocontainer box had been duly examined and returned by Forensics, and could he for God's sakes give the damn thing to somebody else and go off-duty and go to bed now? Miles flinched guiltily, glad Ivan could not detect sleep on his breath over a comconsole, and ordered him to return the box to the guardianship of the Evidence Rooms, and take the rest of the day off.

He was just stepping into the bath when his comconsole chimed again. This time it was Dr. Chenko, from the Imperial Military Hospital's veterans clinic.

"Lord Vorkosigan." Chenko ducked his head in cheery greetings. "My apologies for taking so long. These micro-engineering challenges always prove a little more complex in the execution than the planning. But we've worked up a device small enough to insert under your skull to, we hope safely, trigger your seizures, and we're finally ready to test it on you. If it works properly, we can go ahead with the final calibrations and schedule surgery to install it."

"Oh," said Miles. "Good work." Bad timing.

"When can you come in? Tomorrow?"

Haroche might call with the systems team's report at any time, and when that happened, Miles suspected, things would start to move very quickly. And . . . somewhere in Vorbarr Sultana was a very clever ImpSec-trained man who had made Miles his special target. Did Chenko's experimental gizmo use any protein circuits, and what had happened to that missing capsule? The thought of people he didn't know very well installing devices he didn't understand into his brain gave him cold chills, just now. "I … probably not tomorrow. I'll have to get back to you on scheduling, Doctor."

Chenko looked disappointed. "Have you had any more episodes since the one we forced in the lab?"

"Not so far."

"Hm. Well, I'd advise you not to wait too long, my lord."

"I understand. I'll do my best."

"And avoid stress," Chenko added as an afterthought, as Miles reached for the disconnect.

"Thank you, Doctor," Miles growled at the empty vid plate.

He was halfway through his shower when he suddenly recalled that this was the night of Laisa's party. His attendance had been just short of Imperially commanded; and his duties, it appeared, were going to permit. At the very least, it would be well to seize the chance beforehand to get in an interim report to Gregor. All he needed was to dredge up a dance partner.

He dressed carefully, and called Delia Koudelka.

"Hi," he greeted her blondness. At least he didn't get a crick in his neck looking up, over a comconsole. "What are you doing tonight?"

"I'm . . . rather busy," she responded politely. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh." Damn. His own fault, for waiting till the last minute, and just assuming . . .

"Or—this doesn't have anything to do with your Imperial Auditor thing, does it?" she added in worry.

A vision of a splendid opportunity to abuse his new powers danced in his head, briefly. Regretfully, he pushed it aside. "No. Just a Miles-thing."

"Sorry," she said, sounding sincere.

"Um … is Martya in?"

"She's busy tonight too, I'm afraid."

"And Olivia?"

"Her, too."

"Ah. Well, thanks anyway."

"Whatever for?" She cut the com.

Miles's verbal report to Gregor made them both late for the party; Gregor had dozens of questions, most of which Miles could not yet answer. He chewed on his lip in frustration as they paused in the shadowed vestibule opening onto one of the Imperial Residence s smaller reception rooms. It was already bright and crowded with people. In the chamber next to it, visible through arched doors thrown open, a small orchestra was tuning up.

Colonel Lord Vortala the younger, in charge of the Residence's security tonight, had escorted Miles and the Emperor there personally. Vortala, who looked both neat and harried simultaneously, now saluted and broke away back into the hallway, already answering some subordinate though his headset.

"It's hard to get used to not having Illyan at my back," sighed Gregor, staring after him. "Though Vortalas doing a fine job," he added hastily. He glanced down at Miles. "Try not to look so grim. Even without your Auditors chain, it will make people curious what we've been up to, and then we'll both have to spend the rest of the evening trying to squelch gossip."

Miles nodded. "Same goes for you." He couldn't think of any good, or even awful, jokes just at the moment. "Think of Laisa," he advised.

Gregor's face lightened right up; smiling dryly in turn, Miles followed him into the chamber. There they completed Gregor's happiness by finding Dr. Toscane, under Lady Alys's wing as usual. Countess Vorkosigan also stood with them, chatting amiably.

"Oh, good," said the Countess. "Here they are." Gregor captured Laisa's hand, and placed it on his arm, possessively; she smiled up at him with starry eyes. The Countess continued, "Alys, now that her proper escort is here, why don't you let me play Baba for a while. You ought to relax and enjoy yourself at one of these things for a change." A slight inclination of her head: Miles followed the nod to notice Illyan, quite sharp in a dark and unusually well cut civilian-style tunic and trousers, yet managing by pure habit to look not-quite-there, as if light parted to flow around him.

"Thank you, Cordelia," murmured Lady Alys. After Gregor greeted his former security chief, and they exchanged some standard how-are-you-feeling, fine, Sire, you-look-well party chat, Alys determinedly bore Illyan off, before he could slip back into any land of attempted work-mode.

"His convalescence does seem to be going well," said Gregor, watching this byplay in approval.

"You can thank Lady Alys for that," Countess Vorkosigan told him.

"Your son too."

"So I understand."

Miles bowed slightly, and not altogether ironically. He glanced after Illyan and his aunt, who were apparently heading for the refreshment tables. "Not that I'm intimately familiar with the contents of Illyan's closet, but . . . there's something different about the way he's dressed, I swear. Conservative as hell, as always, but . . ."

Countess Vorkosigan smiled. "Lady Alys finally persuaded him to let her recommend a tailor. His taste, or lack of it, in clothing has made her tear her hair for years."

"I always thought it was part of his ImpSec persona. Blandly invisible."

"That, too, certainly."

Gregor and Laisa began comparing what they had been doing for the interminable four hours since they'd last met, a conversation mainly absorbing to its principals; Miles, having spotted Ivan across the room, left them together under his mother's indulgent eye. Ivan was escorting Martya Koudelka, ah ha.